Silent Scream
by Chelsey Nova
Summary: God, he loves it when she screams.


**_Author's Note:_ **I don't own Jackson, Lisa, or anything/anyone related to Red Eye. This was just a little something that popped in my head one day, and if I didn't write it, I'd go crazy. So, here it is. Please read and review; I live for feedback!

Yours truly,

Chelsey Nova

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_**Silent Scream**_

God, he loves it when she screams.

Whether she is indignantly yelling at him to go away, to leave her alone, or she is crying out his name in ecstasy, her wails always prove to be music to his ears.

Her screams, her cries are bloodcurdling. At times, they are poisonous, threatening, fierce. They send razor blades of ice slicing through his body. And in other instances, they are filled with passion, laced with desire, and they ignite fire within him.

But it doesn't matter the cause of her screams, the context of their origin.

Each and every one of them is beautiful.

Her cries are sublime poetry, threatening to envelop him completely with their piercing rhythm. They are a string of twisted lullabies, haunting melodies that numb his senses to sleep. His very own Siren's song. He knows if he listens too carefully, he will meet his untimely death; his body will surrender and splatter among the jagged rocks of her deadly shore.

But he can't help himself.

Her screams are drugs to his ears; he can't stop listening, even if he wants to.

He _loves _it when she screams.

He lets himself into her home; the pale door on the east side of her house, same one as always.

Of course, it's unlocked. She always expects him, even if she insists later that she never does.

He opens the door just enough for his narrow body to slide through, and then quietly closes it shut behind him.

She already knows he's here, but this simple knowledge does not put an end to his stealthy moves, to his cautious maneuvers.

It's all part of the game they play.

He enters a dark hallway, and habit tells him to move to the right, in the direction of the kitchen. She's always there, seemingly in the middle of making dinner. Sometimes he jokingly asks her if she set the table for two. This is when she typically retaliates with some sort of vulgar comeback.

His favorite is something along the lines of her asking him if he _really _expects her to keep her dinner down while sitting across from him, while staring at his disgusting face.

He slides into the well-lit kitchen, and sure enough, there she is, hovered over the stove, cooking something that she really doesn't expect she'll get the chance to eat.

She curses as sizzling grease leaps from the frying pan and lands on her arm. He chuckles lightly at the string of colorful words that explode from her mouth. Even over the hum of the stove, she hears his faint laughter and swiftly turns around, feigning surprise, as if she didn't know he was already there.

He casually crosses his arms over his chest and presses his lean form into the edge of the table.

He greets her as he always does. A deep breath, a cocky smirk. "Hey, Leese."

He thinks he sees one side of her mouth slightly curl in a dimpled grin, but it vanishes before he can decide if it was truly there. Her eyes are a blazing green; she's furious, enraged, pissed off to the max.

She's ready to play.

He unfolds his arms and shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He appears less menacing this way. He takes one step towards her, and then another. She instinctively steps to the right, in the direction of the hallway. Her fingers are skimming over the terra cotta countertops, searching for a weapon, but there is none.

She doesn't want there to be. She prefers using her fists. He has the bruises to prove it.

She sidesteps her way into the living room, and he follows her. She pauses next to the coffee table, and her eyes connect with his.

Here it comes.

He asks her if she was expecting him, and she says no. He tells her not to lie, he _hates _liars, but this doesn't sway her to tell the truth.

Instead, she whispers that she would like for him to leave.

He takes one step in her direction.

She does not move.

Her voice becomes slightly louder, just loud enough to assure her that he can hear her words. "Get out of here, Jackson."

He makes another advance towards her.

Her voice becomes more threatening this time, and he can tell she's about to reach the breaking point. "Leave me alone."

He moves towards her, and he is close to her. So close that he can feel the heat radiating from her body.

Her mouth opens, he sees her chest heave in a deep breath, and he knows what is coming.

Her shrieking voice reaches his ears, and he closes his eyes in contentment as her words roll through him.

"Get the fuck out of my house, Jack!"

His head rolls back and his eyes slide shut as a wave of arousal roars through him. A familiar feeling rises and swells in his chest, and it feels unlike anything he has ever allowed himself to feel. It's in this moment that he truly feels alive.

His eyes slowly open in the fade of his pleasure, and he tilts his head forward. She is seething, fuming, and clearly enjoying yelling at him. Almost as much as he is.

More hollered, hateful words spew from her mouth and slap him deliciously across the face. A low growl escapes from his throat, and he clenches his jaw, curls his lips in dislike, even though he is loving every minute of this. She opens her mouth to shout again, but his mouth captures hers in his own and swallows her screams.

Lips mesh together brutally, tongues thrust into hot mouths and fight for dominance, eager hands grasp whatever flesh they can reach. It's never tender, never loving. It's always violent, animalistic, hungry, bruising.

Their relationship has never been anything but.

They hastily move up the flight of stairs, never breaking the scorching burn of the kiss. They reach the top of the stairs, and halfway down the hall, he shoves her into the wall, and rests his hand on her throat. Just to shake her up a little. To let her know he's the boss.

They move into her bedroom, tearing away clothing as they go. The bed breaks their fall, and she lands beneath him. This is the way she likes it. She likes for him to be in control. It's all she's ever known.

He teases her, nibbles the flesh just below her jawline, and it earns him a shriek. But it's not enough. He needs to hear her scream his name.

Just once.

He changes his pace and slowly kisses his way down the length of her slender body. He memorizes every part of her, ever freckle, every mole, every scar. She pants heavily as he spreads moist, bruising kisses over her neck, against her collarbone, across the soft curves of her breasts, over her creamy belly, just below her navel.

He pauses.

She lazily lifts her head from the pillowcase and looks at him through hooded eyes.

His name falls from her lips in a breathless, almost tender murmur.

"Jack."

He joins her at the top of the bed, no longer able to control himself, and he once again claims her mouth with his own. His finger draws an imaginary line across the sensitive flesh of her throat, and it thrills her.

She's close.

He rolls himself on top of her, and gazes at her face. Green sparks of life dance in her eyes, a sweet redness covers the apples of her cheeks, her voluptuous lips are molded into a perfect "O" as she waits for him to join her.

Leese. His beautiful Leese.

For a moment, he almost wishes he could stop time and beg her to run with him.

But he knows he can't.

That would be against the rules.

He hovers over her for what seems like centuries, but is only merely seconds. His eyes lock onto hers, and then he buries himself inside of her.

She cries out.

They rock against each other, revel in the feel of each other, and her fingernails press viciously, unforgivingly into the bare muscles of his back. This adds fuel to the fire burning insanely inside of him, and he moves with heightened intensity inside of her. She is quick to match his rhythm, and it isn't long before the stars are exploding in her eyes.

She screams.

"Jackson!"

This is his undoing.

He erupts inside of her, his face tightening with the release of his ecstasy, her voice calling out his name echoes in his ears. He collapses beside her, and fights for his breath. She, too, is gasping for air beside him. Her hair is spread out on the satiny pillowcases, her eyes are wild and brilliantly green, her cheeks are pink from her exertions, her mouth is formed in a perfect "O".

She never looked more beautiful than she does in this moment.

Once he catches his breath, he pushes himself from the bed and collects his clothing from the floor. She watches him as he gets dressed. He pulls on his boxers, his button-down shirt, his pants. In her excitement, she didn't notice the sheath hanging from the belt of his slacks.

Nor the knife it encased.

Slowly, he withdraws the blade from its case. He turns to face her, and a cold smirk settles on his face as he watches her watch the knife. She's scared.

For the first time in a long time, she's afraid of him.

He advances towards the bed, and sits down next to her on the soft bedding. He holds the knife out in front of her, and he is surprised when she doesn't move away from him. She gazes at him knowingly with her fiery green eyes, and tilts her head back, exposing the vulnerable flesh of her throat.

She's petrified of him in this moment.

And yet, she has never trusted him more.

He releases a shaky sigh, and shifts towards her. Her eyes widen, and in this moment, he knows she is going to scream.

And before she can cry out, he drags the knife across her jugular.

Her body trembles as warm blood spills down her neck, and then she dies against him.

The score is settled. The job is finished.

He wipes the knife off on her sheets, leaving angry red streaks on a white, satiny canvas. A beautiful contrast.

His eyes close.

Something rises and swells in his chest, and it threatens to claim him.

He doesn't understand what it is.

He's afraid to.

His eyes open as the feeling slowly fades away.

He takes in the sight of her lifeless body, her curly, auburn hair messily spread out on the pillowcases, her once alert, green eyes widened in fear, the river of crimson life that's spilling down the valley between her breasts and onto the sheets, sheets that he'd loved her on mere minutes before.

He bends his head to place one last kiss on her death-chilled lips.

Lips that are parted in a perfect "O", that are frozen in a silent scream.

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**A/N:** So, what did you guys think? I think this was the weirdest piece I've ever written... I'm not quite sure how I feel about it. Hope you enjoyed!

Yours truly,

Chelsey Nova


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